


The Pack Survives

by RedValkyrie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22001728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedValkyrie/pseuds/RedValkyrie
Summary: Given the chance to save her family, Arya Stark plays the game.A time travel fix-it, because I'm all about those.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

She woke up in her room in Winterfell. The wooden ceiling, the rough stone walls that were warm to the touch and the gray drapery over her bed that her mother had sown, it was all so familiar and yet saddening at the same time, and it took her a moment to remember why. Because all of this had been burnt down after the Greyjoys took Winterfell. Because she had never seen this ceiling since she had left for King’s Landing with her father, to watch her family get torn apart.

Waking up in this room was impossible. She had gone to sleep in a battered house in King’s Landing, one of the ones that had survived the scorch, alongside thousands of citizens crying and mourning their dead in the asheap that was left. She’d gone to sleep there, knowing it would be harder for the Dragon Queen’s men to find her in the crowd, knowing it was the last place anyone would look for her. She’d gone to sleep reciting her new list of names in her head.

Daenerys. Daenerys.  _ Daenerys. _

And now she had woken up in an impossible place. A ghost of a room, full of old life and old memories that had long since gone up in smoke. She rubbed her eyes blearily and looked out of the window. The sunrise was blooming in the sky, and there was a light dusting of summer snow on the windowsill. She was about to sit up, when a big fur ball leapt up onto her stomach to enthusiastically lick her face.

The moment her hands entangled in Nymeria’s fur, she knew that this was real. No dream could capture the depth of joy she felt, the clarity of sight and mind she had when she was reunited with her direwolf companion. They played around for a bit in their favorite way, Arya finally allowing herself to wrestle properly with the direwolf, something she had been nervous about before. She rolled out of the bedding and pushed Nymeria onto her back, and Nymeria harmlessly bit down on her shoulder, before Arya bit her back, coughing up fur afterwards and loving every second of it. They both fell off the bed in a tangle of limbs and fur, and Arya laughed in real childlike joy for the first time in years.

When the door opened, she was sprawled on the floor, surrendering, as Nymeria had somehow gotten her mouth around her throat and was pressing lightly to indicate victory.

“What in the seven hells is happening here?” She looked up, and saw Jon and Robb in the doorway, with Ghost and Grey Wind at their side. Her heart leapt in joy while watching her brothers (for Jon would always be her brother) looking so young and innocent. Jon hadn’t come back, she could see it in his face. She grinned back.

“Shhh! I’m dead.” She playfully explained. Robb and Jon made ‘oh’ faces like they understood.

“All right then. Nymeria, would you like some breakfast then? Arya won’t need it.” She looked up at the direwolf.

“Could I come back to life?” Nymeria cocked her head, considering, before hopping off her chest. Arya scratched her behind the ear. “Thanks, girl.”

She got up, brushing wolf hairs from her nightgown.

“I’ll be down in a minute.” She promised.

“You should probably wash up too” Robb advised. “The King will be arriving today. Mother would have a fit if she saw you like that.” He gestured at her messy hair and saliva covered face. She shrugged, as if her mother hadn’t seen her worse. As if she hadn’t walked around for days and weeks covered in mud, blood and shit. But they didn’t know that last part, and washing up wouldn’t do her much harm.

Once her brother’s had left, she got herself a pot of water and a piece of cloth, thoroughly scrubbing her face, neck and body, before roughly brushing out the largest tangles. Long hair was a pain, she decided, as the brush came away with large knots of hair attached. Finally, she picked out a decent looking dress and looked around for her sword, only to stop in her tracks. She didn’t have Needle yet.

A lot of things hadn’t happened yet. Her father hadn’t gone south. Her family hadn’t been brought to ruin. She looked at herself in her small mirror. She was so small, only a child again. But at the same time, she was also not. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, and as she flexed her hands and rolled her shoulders, she felt those years of practice and muscle memory still sitting in her limbs. This time, she was not helpless. And she would save her family, no matter who would stand in her way. This time, she didn’t have to avenge anything. This time, she could be a protector.

She would have to put on an act. The innocent little girl just in the right place at the right time. But she happened to be a phenomenal liar.

She’d been busy that day. Breakfast itself was a strange affair. The whole castle was bustling with everything that had to be done before the royal guests arrived, and Arya watched as people long dead went through the motions. She swore to herself they would not die this time around. They would be okay. They had to be.

She watched her mother with melancholy, knowing the woman had too much love for too few people, and would one day very soon start a war because of it. She watched her sister, a preppy little bitch who had a lot of growing up to do. This time, she would be able to do it under better circumstances. Maybe she would grow up to be more kind and less cold. But it would be an uphill battle to get her to fall out of love with that snot nosed, evil little bastard she would be crushing on soon.

But as much as she could sit and watch her family all day long, she had work to do. The first thing was grabbing a weapon, because she felt naked without one. She would get Needle very soon, if everything went according to the plan, but she needed something she could carry around as well. Sneaking into the armory, she found herself a good dagger to strap to her leg. Honestly, what she really wanted was a finger blade. The little braavosi blade was a handy thing, useful for cutting purses, opening pockets and administering poison. But they didn’t make blades like that in the North, and she couldn’t exactly walk up to Mikken Weaponsmith and ask for one either.

But as much as she busied herself gathering supplies, she knew it likely wouldn’t be enough. Her father had made his mind up to go to King’s Landing, but he was the person least likely to survive down there. He was too uncompromising, too honest, too good. If he went down there, he would find out the Lannister’s dirty secret, and the War of the Five Kings would be inevitable. But short of permanently crippling her own father, she could see no way to stop him. 

And so, she kept her eyes open and bided her time. If she had to stand in the throne room with a sword in hand to kill every single redcloak coming at him, she would. She watched as the servants finished the preparations for the great feast. She watched as fat King Robert rode in with his posse: the Queen Bitch (somehow not the worst queen she’d met), her lover brother, the Hound and so many others. She watched the greetings, the pissing contests, the tenseness between rivaling families, she watched guests and servants, men at arms and freeriders. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for before she found it.

A man who looked off. Too tense, too detached from the party, even as he entertained a group of admiring women. A singer. She had barely noticed him the first time around, but this time he stuck out like a sore thumb. He kept glancing at Jon, she realized, seated on the back row, drinking himself silly with the men at arms because he could.

She tried to think back. Had she ever met this man? Not that she could remember. Yet here he was, constantly drawing her eyes. He’d been at the feast last time, she remembered. At one point he’d sung the song about the Dornishman’s wife, and Robb had covered her ears even though she hadn’t really understood what the song was about. As far as she could remember, that had been before Sansa went up to greet the Queen... but he hadn’t sung that song so far. He was different, and she was pretty sure she hadn’t done anything to cause that.

He had the eyes of a man who woke up that morning and wondered where he was.

She needed to speak to this man, but she couldn’t do that during the party. But if he was what she thought she was, it shouldn’t be too hard to get his attention.

As she was about to plot her approach, a voice piped up from beside her. “Lady Arya?” He was small and tentative, and the last time she’d laughed him off. This time, she saw not only the young prince asking her to dance, but also his older sister giving him a quiet nudge from behind when he almost backed out.

Neither she nor Tommen had the first clue how to dance, much to everyone’s amusement. Sansa jeered, Robb whistled and Jaime Lannister nearly laughed his arse off when Tommen tripped over his own feet. Arya smiled sweetly at the boy, encouraging him. Inside, her smile was more smug. None of them knew what she was doing. They didn’t know that this is exactly what she wanted. She twirled, letting her dress flow around her and doing what little she could to salvage their awkward little dance. Tommen seemed to enjoy himself, at the very least. She almost felt bad for turning him down the first time. He was alright, all things considered. When the dance was over, so was Tommen’s courage, and she watched him scurry back to his sister, who clapped him on the back and gave Arya an appreciative nod. She nodded back, glad at least someone understood that this was partly a favour to the boy.

Her heart soared in triumph when the next stage of her plan came to fruition. Two fingers tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

“The broken tower. Hour of the Bat.” She said to the singer, before Robb came to carry her to bed. He tapped her shoulder again, and the encounter was over. Back in her room, she dressed down to get some sleep, then found a pair of breeches and a tunic and cloak to wear in the night.

He was waiting for her when she arrived, leaning against a wall as far from any window as he could find. Even in the starlight she could see the detail on his weathered face. He had furs strapped over his shoulders and back, not enough to be a cloak but enough to keep him warm in the night, she supposed. His breath misted in the air as he spoke.

“My Lady.” It was said almost mockingly, and he made no move to bow. Not that she expected him to. She couldn’t think of anyone ever bowing to her. Usually, they just shrunk back in fear.

“I’m not anyone’s lady.” She said in response. “I’m Arya Stark. Who are you?” She cut straight to the chase, feeling her dagger, now strapped at her side under her cloak. It was hard to forget that she was very, very small, especially compared to this man. He was no mere singer, she was sure of that much.

He looked at her, cocking his head while considering, a gesture he apparently shared with Nymeria. The wolf stepped up beside her. She had never told her to follow, but her companion did not care. Starks should not be separated from their direwolves.

“Why does it matter who I am?” The man finally asked.

“Because you look like a man who woke up this morning wondering where he was. Because you seem like a man who knows things he shouldn’t know.” She said, adding “Things that concern my brother.”

“Half-brother.” The singer was testing her.

“He will always be my brother.” She rebutted, waving it off. “He is facing tough times. We all are. I want what is best for him.”

“And I want what is best for my people.” His people. He was a northman, everything from his face to his accent gave it away, yet he spoke in exclusionary terms, which could only mean one thing.

“You’re a wildling.” She stated it like a fact, but from his reaction she could see she had struck the mark. She thought back to everything Jon had told her filling her in on all that concerned the Free Folk. She would have noticed a man of such noble features at Winterfell, so he must have died before then, and she had a feeling he was someone important. She took another leap of faith as a name came to her. “Mance Rayder, I presume.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Jon mentioned you.” She confirmed. “He spoke very highly of you.” The King Beyond the Wall guffawed a short laughter.

“He did, aye? I suppose the little baby crow became somewhat fond of me. He tried to save me, you know? Pleaded with that king of his to spare me if I bent the knee.”

“Free Folk don’t kneel.”

“Damn straight. I couldn’t have done it. It would have been the death of me.”

“Still. Fire is a bad way to go.” She opined. The man shuddered. “What do you remember?”

“Everything.” He said. “The fire, the screaming, even that damn arrow Lord Crow fired at me. And then I woke up a day’s ride from Winterfell, in my old minstrel clothes and not a burn on me.” He turned to her. “What do you remember?”

“A lot more.” She told him. “I lived quite a bit longer than you did.”

“The dead?” He asked.

“We beat them.” She confirmed. “But it came at a price.”

“And the Free Folk?”

“A few made it. Jon let them through the Wall, but he was killed for it. A lot died before then, a lot more after.” The man took it in, nodding to himself.

“It seems like I’ll have to do better this time.”

“So do I. But maybe we can help each other.” He looked at her, interested.

“You need allies.” She told him. “There is little you can do with the Wall between you and safety, other than squander men on a battle you’ll lose.”

“And you can get me that? Allies, I mean?” She shrugged.

“I think I’m going to have to go South soon. But I can give you something that might help.”

“And what would that be?”

“Letters.” She told him. He raised a dark eyebrow, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

“Letters?”

“Letters, handwritten by me to Jon and to my father, to be delivered at the right time. Letters that confirm the threat coming from the north, and confirm that letting you through is your only chance. They should weigh in your favour.”

“Your father? He is going south too, isn’t he?”

“He can’t” She told him staunchly. “He is an old school Stark. He won’t make it six months in the capital, but you know that already.” She accused. He nodded to confirm that he knew of Lord Eddard’s fate. “That is where I need your help. I need you to cause a distraction, something that will force my father to stay and manage the North long enough that I can get another Hand appointed.”

“Why would I want Lord Stark here? More of your people around will mean more people between my people and safety.”

“There will be people between you and safety anyway. Robb will stay behind, and this time, I’m making sure there is no war to draw him away. So you choose: Ned Stark, the famously reasonable Lord, or Robb Stark, the Young Wolf who never lost a battle.” The wildling king broke out laughing.

“You’re threatening to sicc your big brother at me?”

“I’m a noblewoman.” She feigned a curtsy. “It’s what I do. But it’s all up to you.”

“Alright, I’ll humour you. What kind of distraction?”

A feral grin spread over Arya’s lips.

“I want you to burn down the Dreadfort.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya makes some new friends and makes another move.

Mance Rayder rode off that very night, on a horse stolen from a freerider from King Robert's column. In the wane moonlight, she could just make out his horse as he rode. As soon as he'd put some distance between himself and the castle, he would begin obscuring his tracks. With some luck, people would assume he was simply a crooked bard who saw the horse and couldn't help himself from stealing it. As a seasoned ranger, he should make it to the Dreadfort in time.

Nymeria pressed into her leg, a warm, comforting presence. Oh, how she wished she was the one riding there. Even as small as she was, she would find a way to make those motherfuckers pay for everything they'd done. Still, she trusted the infamous Rayder to do it for her. If she accomplished nothing else, coming back just for this would be worth it. She returned to her room without incident, barring the door and covering the window out of habit. This was no time to sleep -- she probably wouldn't be able to even if she wanted to. There was so much running through her head, so many possibilities and so much to do. Arya had never been one for finesse: unless that finesse involved killing someone. She tried to think through what she knew.

Her mother and father knew that Jon Arryn was assassinated. They did not know it was Littlefinger and Lysa Arryn who did it. She couldn't help but smile at the memory of slitting Littlefinger's throat. Him begging and pleading as his well laid plans crumbled around him. Oh, how fun it would be to ruin him again, this time without him getting half as far.

Did anybody know about Cersei and Jaime's adventures in the sheets? Jon Arryn might have known, but she was fairly certain it was her father who told Stannis.

What else did she know? Daenerys would be deadlier than anyone had expected. Considering how little of a difference those dragons had actually done against the dead, the best choice would be to kill her before she could even get them. She didn't know exactly when that was, so time was of the essence. On the bright side, pretty much everyone were for assassinating her, she just had to make sure they didn't screw it up. Somehow.

Varys was supporting the Targaryens, as were the Dornish, though they were way more cowardly about it. Balon Greyjoy would probably keep sitting on his arse as long as the Seven Kingdoms were stable, and Euron wouldn't be back for several years.

She stood and paced, feeling a headache coming on. There was just so damn much that was out of her control. She needed more eyes and ears. She needed allies.

The darkness of the room was not as thick as she'd thought it would be. She could see pretty much everything with startling clarity, though she couldn't see any colour. It was a form of vision she was used to, from her dreams. She glanced down at Nymeria and remembered that Jon had mentioned feeling something similar around Ghost. Warg. She'd never used to word to describe herself, but there was no doubt in her mind. Her connection to Nymeria was close, but she remembered from Old Nan's tales that wargs could have multiple companions. She'd made some in her past life, with various cats and rats scurrying about in her hidey-holes. But what she really needed now, when trying to steer an entire continent, was something with wings.

With a new goal in mind, she saw no reason to stay indoors. She unbarred her door and made her way outside into the courtyard with Nymeria at her heels. The guards on gate duty were bored out of their mind, playing some sort of game with dice, from the sound of it. There was light and laughter from the stables, where some of the servants and visiting freeriders were having a party of some sort. She steered past them and made her way to one of her favorite places in the whole castle.

She wandered aimless through the godswood, watching the trees, many of them older than the castle itself. She balanced effortlessly over one of the planks across a heated pool, feeling the steam rise around her in the cold night. Nymeria sensed no threats and took the opportunity to stretch her legs, bounding around the godswood like the puppy she was. After frolicking a bit with her, Arya decided to focus on her task. She figured that using ancient magics like this was better done before the heart tree. The winding old weirwood stared unblinking at her as she approached. She'd always wondered why the Children of the Forest carved it's face with such anguish, though now she wasn't so sure even the ancient Children had truly created the sacred shrines themselves. And it was no wonder it was anguished. All the pain, misery and heartbreak it had seen. Every ill fated marriage, every desperate unanswered prayer, every man woman and child going to die before the gods.

And if the Three-Eyed Raven could see through the eyes of all weirwood trees, could they through each others'? Did it feel the pain of all of it's southern compatriots as they were cut down by the Andals? She patted one of it's roots.

"Valar morghulis. Even the gods." She told it. She supposed the words would give the tree about as much comfort as they did her. Arya lay down on her back in the red leaves on the ground, looking up at the sky. A raven was the obvious choice. She could find one in the rookery without much problem. While ravens were good, sturdy and intelligent birds, they were also almost synonymous with messengers. A raven flying in and out her window could only mean one thing. She needed something more unassuming.

Three bullfinches were playing the bushes, searching for seeds. They bright orange plumes shone in the dark. With her hand on a white root, she whistled, trying her best to imitate their frail little calls, and to reach out to them with her mind. One jumped off it's perch and landed close by, pecking around her hand as if there was food to find. Unassuming, but not very useful, she surmised.

Keeping her grip on the root, she closed her eyes and called out again, not so much with her voice as with her mind. Even at the other end of the godswood she could feel Nymeria rise to attention. Not you, girl. She said to the wolf.

There was rustling of wings all around her. She needed someone strong. Someone loyal. Someone who cared as much as her for saving the world.

She opened her eyes. They were perched on the weirwood, beady eyes fixed on her. The bullfinches had taken the nearest branch, fluffing their bright plumage and making themselves as big as possible. If she didn't know better she'd think of it as a mating dance. A bit further out were two black crows, shaggy and scratching at lice in their plumage. Further up, towards the top of the tree, was a great eagle, looking down at her with calculating eyes. She met it's gaze without hesitation. She was a proud warrior, that one. She'd hunted and killed since she learned to take flight for the first time. She'd done it because it was her duty, to fight for her family and her nest and her gods, when she had to.

"You stay with your nest, madam." Arya told the eagle. "Your time will come soon enough." The eagle flew off, and she giggled a little. This was not her first conversation with a bird, but it was certainly the first one where she expected an answer.

Finally, her eyes were drawn to the last bird who'd answered her call. He was a patient one, she could tell. Most of his kind would not stand for being considered last. He was a magpie, rather big for his kind. The kind that had wandered this castle his whole life, living off the scraps of meals thrown off. He was as much of a resident of this castle as she was. Like her, he was ready to leave and defend it. She shuffled around in her pocket, looking for the pieces of bread she'd taken from the kitchens earlier in the day. It was a habit of hers that was hard to kick, squirreling away food just in case.

The magpie leaped off the branch and made it's way down to stand by her side. She sat up and tore a piece of the bread, tossing it to the bird. She didn't feel any connection to the creature, not like she did with Nymeria. Even though they were practically touching, she couldn't see through it's eyes, like she had done with other creatures. But she knew enough by now to know it would take time. For now, all she could do was make suggestions and requests.

The magpie cawed, and she threw it another piece. Figuring they had lost their chance, the crows and bullfinches flew off, going back to doing whatever it is birds do when nobody is looking. Nymeria figured that meant the meeting was over and made her way up to them. She sniffed the bird suspiciously for a few seconds before settling down next to Arya. The bird did not seem overly concerned with the apex predator.

"You should probably have a name." Arya mused, tossing the bird another piece. She carefully raised her hand, lightly touching a wing. The bird didn't shy away, but she didn't want to push it. He was by no means domesticated. The creatures of the North never could be, she thought. Even as small as he was, the magpie had the pride of a dragon. She glanced at him again. Black and white. It wasn't exactly silver, but a name stuck in her head anyway.

"Meraxes." She stroked the wing again. "I may not like Targaryens, but that doesn't mean I can't admire them. Or their dragons." Whether Meraxes approved of his new name was anyone's guess. He ate the final piece of bread, and with a gesture she dismissed him. She leaned back against Nymeria, rubbing the direwolf's neck.

Time passed agonizingly slowly. Surrounded by clueless family and unwitting mortal enemies, her only comfort was Nymeria and Meraxes. Every day, their connection grew closer. Jon was the first one who seemed to notice that Nymeria was acting like an extension of her. She got a lot of praise for how well she'd 'trained' the direwolf, though she'd actually stopped her training completely. She didn't even bother giving her orders. Nymeria was her sister, her companion, her friend. Every morning, she opened her window to let in a cold gush of air and Meraxes. As could be expected of a bird, he didn't do too well inside. He fluttered about, knocking things over and making a right mess, and she honestly could not care less.

During the day, he mostly stayed out of sight, though she could tell he was following her surreptitiously as she played with her brothers. She tested their connection by asking him to do things, like take longer trips and bring back certain things like acorns or spoons. He couldn't understand orders that were too complicated, but he was very good at finding his way, and if given the right amount of treats, he was willing to do as she said.

On the morning of the third day, she was laying flat on her stomach on her bed, playing a shell game with Meraxes and Nymeria. The wolf did not seem to get the point of the game -- probably because her sense of smell let her immediately tell under which cup the piece of ham was hiding. Arya knew she knew because she was borrowing that same sense. Not quite as good, she suspected, and only when she was in physical contact with Nymeria, but it was still a startling difference. She'd practiced leaving her own body behind and running in Nymeria's body, like she had in all of her dreams. It was an alien concept and hard to do on purpose, kind of like flapping your ears. Some people can't do it, others have no idea how to do it. Still, she could do it.

Meraxes pushed a cup over with his beak, pecking at the blanket beneath futilely. Arya could swear Nymeria rolled her eyes, casually pushing over the right cup with her paw. Meraxes pecked up the treat and devoured it quickly, making sure Nymeria wasn't about to steal his unearned food. Arya couldn't help but giggle.

Mance Rayder should have reached the Dreadfort by now, if his estimate was correct. It would be way faster as the bird flies, though. She fixed a look at Meraxes. "How do you feel about taking a trip, Merry?" She gave the best instructions she could, pointing the bird in the right direction and explaining she wanted him to find the black castle. After receiving a final treat, extra big this time, she let him out the window and watched him fly off into the dawn.

Meraxes was a Winterfell native. She was confident he would come back. Whether he would make it all the way to the Dreadfort was another question entirely. And whether she would be able to sense him then was in a whole other league.

She rubbed her eyes and yawned. She hadn't gotten much sleep in the past few days. Still, she had to be awake today.

Breakfast went as usual. She could vaguely remember what the conversations around the table had been like, mostly that Sansa had been fawning over Joffrey. She'd been disgusted then. Now she felt homicidal. She pretended she was just grumpy from lack of sleep, as she viciously stabbed her sausages, and wished they were a certain prince's private parts instead. Her fork stopped before it reached her mouth, and she grimaced. Alright, no sausages today. Or maybe ever.

It struck her that this would be the last such familiar breakfast she would ever have. Today, she was making her first big change.

As the men were getting ready for the hunt in the Wolfwood, Arya approached Bran. Seven hells, he was tiny.

"I'm bored." She declared. "Wanna go play?" They spent a couple of hours playing in the godswood. A little while in, Myrcella joined them, which was surprising. She supposed even princesses got tired of embroidery. It must be just her sister being a freak.

They were playing come into my castle, a game that Arya had never been good at, Bran was barely tolerable at, and Myrcella was a true champion at. Arya preferred the part where she got to hit people with a stick. Unfortunately, while she got to knock down Bran quite a lot, Myrcella had the uncanny ability to sneak the word 'mayhaps' past her. Trying to dodge when Myrcella pushed her from behind would be cheating, so she found herself taking a tumble into the hot springs time and time again.

The first few times, Myrcella was the picture of a gracious princess, but around the tenth time Arya took the plunge into muddy waters Myrcella couldn't keep from giggling and curtseying in her spotless dress. Around the fifteenth time, both she and Bran had decided they'd had enough.

"Alright, you win." Bran declared, wringing out his tunic. "We should do something else."

"Like what?" Myrcella asked. She didn't seem happy to leave the game she was so good at, but she was being gracious about it. Bran thought for a moment.

"Do you want to go climbing?" Arya looked up at the sun. Last time, Bran fell around noon, which wasn't too far from now. As long as they avoided that tower, though, they should be fine. Only, avoiding danger wasn't really Arya's style.

"Didn't mother say she would lock you in your room if she saw you climbing again?" Arya asked. Bran gave her a glare. "And I don't think Myrcella can climb like you can. No offence, Myrcella."

"None taken. And I think my mother would be really mad too, if she saw us."

"Maybe if we climbed inside the towers?" Bran suggested. "Then we won't get caught."

"Climb inside towers? Isn't that just walking up the stairs?"

"Only if you want to be boring about it."

"It sounds fun, though. Winterfell is so much bigger than the Red Keep." Myrcella mused. Bran looked at her uncomprehendingly.

"It is?"

"Yes. Much bigger actually, though more of the Red Keep is being used."

"I guess I always imagined the Red Keep to be really big."

"The Red Keep wasn't built by Brandon the Builder." Arya explained. "All of the most impressive stuff was built by him. The wall, Winterfell and Storm's End. The biggest structure, the second biggest castle and the most secure castle."

"My grandfather says the Eyrie is the most secure castle." Myrcella piped up as they started making their way out of the godswood, with Summer and Nymeria in tow.

"Only because it is way up in the mountains, not because of how it was built. It's not like Bran the Builder could have made a mountain in the Stormlands."

"If he built the Wall, he probably could have."

"The Wall is built of ice. It would melt in the Stormlands."

"Harrenhall is still the bigger castle." Myrcella huffed, not happy with losing.

"Harrenhall doesn't count. It turned into a ruin in just a couple of years. A total waste of good stone." She left out that it was still a formidable fortress. It would be the seat of power in the Riverlands if it hadn't been for that damn curse.

"You're just counting it out because it wasn't built by your ancestors." Myrcella said smugly. Arya considered for a second how to shift the conversation to her advantage. Something sprung to mind, an old story overheard from a Lannister soldier when she was still at Harrenhall. It had peaked her interest because it contained two of her favorite things: valyrian steel swords and the ruins of Old Valyria.

"I suppose everyone's ancestors have some adventures under their belt." It was a bit of a non-sequitur, but she hoped it wasn't too transparent. "Hey, I know what game we can play!"

That caught both of their interests.

"We can go on an adventure in the ruined parts of the castle!" She said with childlike enthusiasm. Bran's face lit up.

"Like a heroic quest? Are we rescuing a maiden from a tower?"

"Then we'd need a maiden. No, we need something else."

"How about a legendary sword?" Myrcella suggested, and Arya didn't bother hiding her victorious smile. Jackpot. "My ancestor, King Tommen the first, lost his valyrian steel sword Brightroar in the ruins of Old Valyria. My granduncle went to search for it, but he never came back."

"I'm sure we would fare better, your Grace." Bran slipped into the role of the valiant knight, doing a courteous bow.

They prepared quickly. Arya borrowed a pie from the kitchens and stuffed it in a sack with a waterskin so they'd have rations, while Bran equipped them all with training swords. "For safety." He said. Myrcella had to borrow a belt to stick hers in. She was clearly unfamiliar with the weapon, but there seemed to be some thrill in carrying one for the first time.

An hour passed quickly during their adventure. Arya sure hoped she'd calculated time right, or this would all be a waste. Hopefully, Cersei and Jaime were planning to spend a lot of time together. In the meantime she enjoyed watching Bran and Myrcella dispatch their first stoneman: technically an overgrown bush. It was thoroughly wacked, while the direwolves watched confused.

As they got nearer the right tower, Arya suggested they had to sneak past some imaginary enemy so they wouldn't give themselves away. Nymeria stuck close to lend her senses, but Summer seemed more hesitant, pulling on Bran to make him turn back. Bran pushed the wolf off with a huff and continued on the quest, pulling his training sword as they snuck up the staircase meant to lead them to the legendary sword.

They were halfway up the stairs when Arya and Nymeria both knew they had arrived in time. Summer bared her teeth. It was on the last turn that everyone knew, and they slowed to a dead halt, pressing against the wall even if there was no way they could be seen from where they were.

Rhythmic slapping of skin against skin. Groaning and panting. Even as young as they were, the sounds were unmistakable. Bran turned beet red, frozen in horror. Myrcella covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide as saucers.

They turned impossibly wider when the two lovebirds decided to do Arya's job for them, and groaned each other's names loudly enough for all three children to hear.

"Jaime." "Cersei."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex and violence.

There was a few long seconds as none of them moved, before Bran couldn't help himself and glanced at Myrcella. Arya was clutching her training sword tight, on high guard. She doubted Jaime would do something stupid with Myrcella there as a witness -- that was the whole reason she'd brought her in the first place. Still, it was hard to tell with the Kingslayer.

Myrcella had a look somewhere between mortification and realization. She fidgeted for a moment, before she gave them a nod, accepting what had just happened. She needed to look. She needed to squash out the last hope that they were just wrestling or something.

Arya probably would have been able to look without getting spotted. She was very good at sneaking around. Myrcella on the other hand made a bit more noise, and it was enough to catch her uncle's attention. Arya peeked out behind her, trying to hide her glee. Jaime Lannister looked like a startled deer, frozen in horror. Cersei was blushing bright red, scrambling for her dress to cover up what they were doing. Quite unsuccessfully too. Arya was eleven, while Myrcella was fourteen. They were by no means dumb.

Myrcella was frozen for a moment, mouth agape as if she was going to say something, before it clicked shut and she turned on her heel. Arya gave the two siblings a long look before she hurried after the young princess, who was storming down the stairs two steps at a time. Arya made sure Bran was following, which he was. Summer seemed damn happy to get out of the tower, urging Bran to keep going. Myrcella hurried around a corner, taking them on a winding path deeper into the ruins, before they finally made it inside a small keep, one of the first that had been built here. The roof had caved in, but the walls were still sturdy and hid them from the world.

Myrcella sat down on a broken piece of roof, hiding her face in her hands for a second.

"'Cella?" Bran broke the silence timidly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Myrcella replied almost automatically. Arya took a seat nearby, and Bran filled in the circle. "Except my father is going to kill my mother and my uncle if he finds out what happened today." She said it with such certainty. The youthful mirth was gone from her face. Last time she'd died young. Arya comforted herself with that. This new timeline meant giving her a new chance.

Nymeria tilted her head at approaching footsteps.

"Myrcella?" Jaime Lannister called out. Cersei wasn't with him. They must have split up to widen the search. Arya leaned closer and kept her voice down.

"Your uncle is scared. We need to tell him it's okay." She tapped Bran on the shoulder. "Go back to the godswood, Bran. And don't tell anyone anything, okay?" There was no need to put her brother in any more danger. Myrcella looked at her questioningly.

"They didn't see him. I think it'd just scare them more if they knew about him too." Arya lied. Myrcella seemed to accept that, and watched as Bran scurried away, finding his usual climbing routes to stay out of sight. If he didn't want to be caught, he wouldn't be. Summer followed along the ground.

"Uncle Jaime!" Myrcella called out once Bran was far enough out of sight. Jaime made his way into the keep through a window. He'd put his clothes back on, and carried his sword at his side. She supposed that as a knight of the Kingsguard he was required to carry one at all times. It didn't make her relax though. He was supposed to be one of the greatest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, and she had nothing but a training sword. And Nymeria.

"We were on an adventure." Myrcella began by explaining. "We were looking for Brightroar in the ruins of Old Valyria." She had pulled out her training sword and was steadfastly looking at it instead of her uncle. The Kingslayer halted, looking pained.

"I'm sorry." He said. There was quiet for a moment, as he glanced at Arya. She kept her face passive. Myrcella needed some time to sort this out. Arya's job was just to communicate that she knew the big secret.

"Are you?" Myrcella raised an eyebrow. She was good at keeping her cool, despite the anger lurking beneath. "You realize what would have happened if it had been someone else, right?" Seven hells, did Myrcella know how to hit people in the right places. Arya was fairly certain she would just be yelling in betrayal if she'd been in her place. "You realize that it's not just your life you are gambling with?"

"Myrcella, we…" Jaime might never have been the smartest Lannister, but it was still strange to see him speechless. Finally, he hung his head.

"Don't tell anyone." He pleaded, more to Arya than to Myrcella. Arya glanced at the princess. She could be a useful ally yet, but Arya was never one to be beholden to oaths.

"For the sake of my friendship with your children, I'll hold off." There seemed to be a moment of relief. "For now." Jaime's face darkened.

"Swear."

"I am a Stark. I won't break any oaths." A bald-faced lie, but one that would benefit her for now.

"So swear."

"No."

"Arya." Myrcella pleaded. Arya gave her a hard look, dropping her childish façade.

"He got himself into this all on his own. I don't want to hurt you or Tommen, but our houses are rivals, and I am a Stark first and foremost. I can't swear never to tell, in case our families become proper enemies." She looked straight at Ser Jaime. "I'll try my best not to let anyone innocent get hurt by this. I suggest you do the same." Ser Jaime's hand was rest on his sword. His knuckles turned white at the grip, but he understood the implication. Nymeria bared her teeth at her side, demonstrating just why it would be a bad idea to pick a fight right now.

Arya stood up, adjusting her sword and tunic, straightening up to her admittedly not impressive full height, before tipping her head politely. "Ser Jaime. Princess Myrcella." She bid her goodbyes and walked straight past Ser Jaime, giving father and daughter time to speak properly. She needed to speak with her brother quite urgently.

Bran was waiting for her by the heart tree, huddled up with Summer and looking borderline sick. He looked up at her arrival. She sat down beside him.

"You didn't tell anyone, did you?" She asked, just to be sure. Bran shook his head. He wasn't lying. She patted him on the shoulder.

"That's good. I promised Myrcella we wouldn't say anything. It could get a bit… awkward."

Bran tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn't keep back a sort of sardonic snicker.

"That was very awkward." He admitted.

"How about we never speak of this again?" She suggested.

"Good idea."

They laid back for a moment, watching the sky, before Arya punched his shoulder. The joy in her heart was making her giddy. "Do you want to spar?"

"And get my arse kicked?" Bran huffed.

"Archery then? I'll still kick your arse, just not literally."

She spent the rest of the day with her brother, watching him shoot, run and climb and reveling in every moment. He would never be able to appreciate what she did for him that day, but that was okay with her.

At the dinner table, Ser Jaime and Cersei were pointedly not looking at her. She made sure Bran didn't stare either. Her thoughts went to Meraxes. He should be close to the Dreadfort by now, but she needed time alone if she was going to try and reach him. That was why she excused herself early, blaming tiredness.

She only shut her door, instead of barring it. She didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but if she somehow hurt herself she wanted to allow Nymeria to get help. She changed into her nightgown and got under the covers, so it would look like she was sleeping to anyone stopping by.

Nymeria laid down by her feet, nudging her. Arya scratched her behind the ear and kissed her head. "You'll look after me, won't you? I won't be gone for too long." She hoped. If she went at all.

She laid down and got comfortable, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. All the way into her lungs, and then all the way out. She thought of Meraxes, of his gleaming white and black feathers, in flight to the east.

Nothing happened. She tried and tried to grasp onto that link they had, the one that had gotten so much stronger since they first met. It didn't work. She could feel Nymeria, close and clear and familiar, but there was no hint of Meraxes.

"Damn it." She muttered, sitting up and letting the covers fall away. Maybe it was a bit too much to hope it would work so soon. She'd just really wanted to see the Boltons burn.

She paced the room annoyedly. Now she'd have to wait for Merry to get back so she could practice more. She'd wasted a lot of time sending him away.

Her bare feet stepped on something thin and a bit stiff. She looked down. A couple of black feather were stuck to her foot. Maybe there was a chance after all.

It took her a few minutes to scour the room for every feather the raucous bird had left behind in her room. She gathered them in a bowl she'd snuck from the kitchens, that had once been filled with sweet treats. The feathers didn't fill it up completely.

She had no idea what she was doing, but it felt like she'd need more to establish a proper connection. She still had the piece of salted ham, Meraxes' favorite. She sliced off a few pieces and put them in with the feathers.

Sitting crosslegged in front of the fireplace with the bowl in her lap, she closed her eyes and took the same breaths as before.

Reaching out was the wrong term, she realized. She didn't reach out to Nymeria in her dreams, she became Nymeria.

"I am Meraxes." She whispered, relaxing. The heat from the fireplace faded, replaced with the cool winds keeping her aloft. She could feel it, pushing against her feathers, could feel the gentle rise and swell as she beat her wings.

The river beneath Meraxes shone lightly in the moonlight, standing out against the dark plains around it. Here and there he could see the glow from fires, where humans were huddling. He wasn't looking for the small human abodes. His destination was a bit ahead, the Home of the Mad Crows. He went high, steering away from the many trees where the local crows were resting.

They feasted well here, he knew. The Mad Crows didn't scavenge for bread and fruit and leftovers like other castle birds. No, they had other things to eat. Left in the woods with regularity, the crows feasted on naked flesh, taking what the hounds so carelessly left behind.

Merry soared over them and made his way to the heart of the darkness, the great human fortress on the height above the river. The Mad Crows were hardly concerned with him as he dove to rest at the edge of one of the towers. They were too busy watching what was unfolding below.

The yelling was so loud that the birds had alighted from their low perches and flown onto roofs and towers, watching in fascination as humans wielded fire and sharpened sticks against each other. The smell of blood woke the hunger in the carrion birds, but the coast wasn't clear yet.

The humans defending the doors of the main keep had the better weapons, but they were being overrun by the more numerous and angrier crowd that had busted through the gate and were screaming for blood. As Merry watched, the line of guards broke. Some were beaten and trampled, while others scurried inside the keep and barred the door. The yelling raised in pitch. Some were battering at the door with some form of makeshift ram, while others were running between the the gate and the keep, piling up straw, branches and firewood along the walls. One man fell with an arrow in his neck, shot from a high up window, but in their frenzy, the crowd refused to stop.

One man in the yard stood out. Tall, noble and familiar. The archer clearly thought so too, and started aiming for him.

The ally raised his shield to defend against the incoming arrows, taking two straight into the wood before raising his axe and yelling another battle cry. The door shattered from the force of the battering ram, and the crowd charged in, with the familiar ally right at their heels.

For a while, the birds cawed restlessly. The action was now out of their sight. Some brave souls made their way down to begin their feast, while others seemed to sense that the night was still young. Meraxes was among the ones who waited.

The sound of people fighting, yelling and dying was still in the air, muffled by the walls around them. One man leapt from a high window, a high pitched scream that was abruptly cut off as his skull was smashed against the ground. The Mad Crows would be feasting for days to come.

Someone leapt out the window again, only this one knew how to land properly. Hacking a tardy villager down with an axe, the runner became a rider as he leapt onto a horse and galloped out the gate. The Ally followed, leaping onto his own horse with practiced ease and galloping after. Some townsfolk followed behind, but they were not nearly as good riders.

Meraxes decided to follow, taking wing and leaving the Mad Crows to their feast. From above, he saw the horses pounding against the dirt of the road as they all rode west. The man fleeing the carnage had the faster horse, it seemed, and both he and his horse knew the road. Meraxes found a breeze going in the right direction and soared on it, watching with his eyes peeled. The rider would get away.

Meraxes felt something building in his chest, an alien feeling to a wild bird. A consuming fire, an icy coldness, a deep, dark hatred. He dove, a black and white arrow in the night. The rider was minding the road and the people behind him. He did not not see Merry before his wings spread wide to keep him from smashing lethally against the rider's chest.

By then it was too late. The rider did a valiant attempt to keep in the saddle, but with a shard beak pecking at his face and claws scratching, he let go and fell sideways with a scream, hanging from one stirrup and dragging along the ground. With a final kick, the rider released himself from his horse and pulled his axe, swinging it around where he was lying on the roadside. Meraxes rolled and leapt out of reach, catching sight of the Ally approaching rapidly.

The sky was lighting up orange behind them as flames licked out of the windows of the castle.

The rider yelled and cursed and fought, but against an armed rider he had no chance. An axe bit into his shoulder, followed by more yelling and cursing. The Ally was pulled from his horse, but he was winning the wrestling match, releasing his arms to grab his axe and smash it straight through the Hated One's chest.

The Ally stood up, watching the Hated One gasp and splutter in disbelief and desperation. The smell of fresh blood and much filled the air. Meraxes was not done yet. Now that the Hated One was disarmed, he swooped in to attack properly, tasting blood and flesh until he finally got ahold of one pale eye and pulled it from it's socket, swallowing it whole. It tasted like sweet revenge.

Soon enough, other crows came to share his meal, but some other villagers chased them off by waving sticks. Defending his rightful trophy. They stood there in a circle around the fallen Hated One and watched as his face was devoured. Some cried, tears of anger and relief. Some smiled in victory. Some were just silently watching the bird that had swooped from above and put an end to the menace that had haunted them for years. Watching the last of a cursed bloodline die.

The sun was raising the in the sky as Meraxes landed on the ground, leagues north of the Home of the Mad Crows. The Ally was watering his horse in a stream. He turned to face the bird, taking in the bloody beak and feathers.

"You take after your brother in more ways than one, I see." He chuckled, a deep, hearty sound. The bird tilted it's head, not fully comprehending the words, but figuring someone would. "I'm going back home now, to the true north. Even your fine bird here would have a hard time finding me, if nobody showed him where to go."

Meraxes cawed.

"Have him follow me, and he can be a messenger." Someone was lending Meraxes the ability to understand a little of what was being said. His sister, back in his home. Follow the Ally, Merry. With that in mind, Meraxes found a perch in a nearby tree and waited to see what the Ally would do next.

Arya woke up lying on the floor, the coolness of the stone rising up from under the carpet. The fire had long since died down, and her only source of heat was Nymeria curled up at her side. She released her tight grip on the bowl that was still in her lap and glanced out the window. The sun was far higher than it had been when she'd left Meraxes. She still felt exhaustion deep in her bones, and she was fighting a killer headache.

She wanted nothing more than to lie down again, too tired to truly pick herself up off the floor, but Nymeria's head rose as footsteps approached, and she had to push the bowl under her bed and scramble up under the covers. The wolf pelts allowed heat to finally sink into her, and she found herself sighing in relief.

The door opened, and her father stepped through. Arya had been so busy for the past few days, she hadn't had a proper conversation with him. Maybe it hadn't been just because she was busy, because looking at him right now, she was brought back to the Sept of Baelor, standing at the foot of the statue watching as Ser Illyn Payne drew her father's sword from it's sheath, admiring it like he had any right to even touch it.

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She hadn't cried in years. She wouldn't start now.

"Arya?" He spoke in a low voice, checking if she was awake. She blinked and shifted, giving him space to sit at the edge of the bed. "You didn't come down for breakfast today."

"I was tired." She muttered. He looked concerned, brushing away her long hair to put his hand on her forehead. His hand was big and warm. She still wasn't crying.

"You're ice cold." He muttered. "I'll send Maester Luwin in later. It's no good for you to get sick now." She wanted to hug him, but that would mean getting out from under the covers, so she settled for scooting a bit closer to him. He kept stroking her hair.

"Did something happen yesterday?" She didn't tense, only look at him uncomprehending. "Bran says he doesn't want to go to King's Landing, but he won't explain why. I hear you were playing with him all day. Did something happen to change his mind?" She bit her lip. Her Lord Father knew his children. She'd need some form of explanation.

"We saw something." She admitted. "We were out exploring the old towers with Princess Myrcella, and we came upon someone…" She looked down, pretending to be bashful while honestly searching for a childlike euphemism for fucking. Luckily, he seemed to get it, looking vaguely embarrassed too.

"And Bran saw that?"

"I don't know how much he saw. We sort of ran away immediately." There was a pause. "Is Bran still coming with us?"

"He is very young." Her father admitted. "I figured it would be like an adventure for him. He's always wanted to see the world. It could be a great opportunity too, to get close to the royal children, perhaps even become someone's squire. Winterfell is very far away from the rest of the world."

"You don't seem to happy about going yourself."

"King's Landing is a viper's nest." Her father said, seeming to forget for a moment who he was talking to. "If it was up to me, I'd stay in Winterfell until the day I die." They both had a silent moment to process their last visit to that horrible city.

"You still want to go?"

"I don't scare easy." Genuine laughter. She smiled back at him.

"No, no you don't. Gods, you remind me so much of your aunt Lyanna." She wanted him to say more. She wanted him to sit with her all day and tell her stories. But he had too much to do, and soon he would have even more. He gave her a one-armed hug before he left, promising to send in Maester Luwin.

She kept a tear from falling by remembering the look on Ramsay Snow's face as she ate his eyeball. Nothing like good old revenge to cheer her up.

Other than passing out on the floor and feeling strangely sick and tired, the experiment had been a success. Meraxes truly was a warrior. She hadn't predicted that Mance would stir up a rebellion, but she supposed it was the easiest option. After all, who would hate the Boltons more than their own subjects? She was willing to let them have their share of revenge.

She just hoped it had happened in time. Without Bran's injury to delay their departure, the King would be leaving tomorrow. How fast news spread depended on whether the Maester of the Dreadfort had bothered to send a raven, or if they would have to wait for a rider.

Maester Luwin prescribed a good meal and sleep (under the covers this time, little lady, you could catch your death) for her cold and headache.

She spent that sleep being Nymeria, hunting in the Wolfswood and enjoying a nice stag. Perhaps it was the proximity, or how familiar she was with Nymeria, but she didn't get any worse from it. Periodic breaks to drink water ad relax, and slowly her headache faded. When night fell, she grabbed her bowl from under the bed, decided to add some fresh ham, and laid down under the covers.

The Ally had set another camp in a cluster of trees, only this time he was not alone. Merry looked down at the four villagers that had decided to follow their saviour. A tall, hardened man with a logger's axe by his side. Another human, this one probably his adolescent son was sitting by his side. The last two were women, young and quiet, staring into the small campfire fire with haunted eyes. The boy looked up at Merry.

"That bird has followed us all day." He said.

"It's just a bird, son. You're getting paranoid." His father responded gruffly. The Ally shifted out of his dozing to catch a glimpse of Merry on his branch.

"If it is following us, it isn't an enemy." The oldest of the two women said. "I saw that same bird knock the bastard off his horse and peck his eyes out." She tilted her head and met Merry's beaded eyes. "Caw if you hated Ramsay Snow as much as the rest of us." Merry heard the name of the Hated One and cawed loudly.

Mance laughed. "Seems you lordling managed to piss off even the wildlife."

"He must have pissed you off too." The woman replied. "You started this, as much as you pretend otherwise."

"I didn't know the man. Hadn't even heard of him before a while ago."

"So why kill him?" Mance shifted in his half-laying position, trying to get more comfortable.

"The family of a girl raped wanted revenge." Was all he said to that. "It was a favour for a favour."

"Lord Stark won't let this pass." The logger said grimly. "It was a crime, it was. We'll all hang, if we get caught."

"Stir up enough trouble, and you might even get yer head lopped off." Was Mance's unsympathetic reply. "If you are going to sit here whining, why don't you go throw yourself at the feet of that high and mighty lord and beg for mercy?" His voice rose in pitch towards the end, a sardonic mockery. Merry had little interest in what would happen after, and flew off to find something to eat before he went to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey along the Kingsroad is different this time around. There is no rest for the wicked.

The headache was back, though not as bad as before. Arya figured it was probably the distance that did it. She didn't feel too cold, but she got up and stoked the fire anyway. Maester Luwin nodded in approval when he found her in the morning and saw she had fed the fire multiple times.

"You look much better, my lady." He said after he had taken her temperature. "I think it will be safe to let you travel." He smiled down at her. "You'd better get packed."

Her coffers were packed a bit differently this time. Sure, all of her clothes found their way into it, but certain items she had gathered in the past week were put all the way in the bottom. Ratty old clothes, even more rugged than her breeches and tunic, a nicer commoner's dress, a travel cloak with a hood, Merry's feathers in a pouch, the wooden bowl and an assortment of needles, small knives and empty vials that she had other plans for.

She covered them with dresses just as Jon knocked on her door. She couldn't get over just how young he looked. The baby fat was still there, making him look soft and squishy. She hugged him with no preamble, and he held her tight. He was always strong. She had to remind herself of that. Temporary death aside, he would do well for himself.

The moment he put Needle into her hands, she could finally release the tension she'd been holding since she came back. With this last puzzle piece, she felt whole again. She stepped back to a safe distance as she weighed the blade in her hand, swinging with practiced ease.

"It suits you." Jon complemented. "You know the first rule of sword-fighting?" Arya grinned, showing off her full set of sharp teeth.

"Stick 'em with the pointy end." In one lighting swift movement, she turned side-face and jabbed twice into the air, deftly skewering an imaginary enemy. He technique and balance was good, but she could feel the lack of strength. There would be time to work on that, she told herself.

Returning Needle to it's sheath, she hugged him so tightly she was certain she'd crack his ribs.

"I'm going to miss you, Arya." He muttered. She squeezed him again, knowing he had no idea just how much. Part of her wished she could go with him. Maybe she could grab a quick horse and catch up with Mance before he reached the Wall. Jon wouldn't believe his eyes if she suddenly showed up when he was out ranging. But as fun as it would be, she had a different path.

"Don't be careful." She said. He released her, raising an eyebrow. "Just trust yourself, okay? And trust Ghost. You're smart enough to know who your enemies are. Don't let them get the best of you. There is nothing up there that you can't beat if you try hard enough."

He stared for a few seconds, unsure of what to say. She diffused the tension by laughing merrily.

"In that case, don't be careful yourself, little sister." He grinned.

"Oh, I wasn't planning to." Jon helped her carry the coffer downstairs, laughing all the way. As she stepped outside, she saw her father in his wolf pelt cloak, preparing to leave. No raven had arrived from the Dreadfort. The attack had happened quickly, but she knew some Bolton freerider must be headed their way.

After saying their goodbye's to everyone, she saw Bran take to the saddle. Evidently, he'd been convinced to come along. She wasn't too worried. If the Old Gods or the Three-Eyed Raven or whomever wanted him to go north, they could damn well make him. And he didn't head that way before Winterfell was burned, so there was plenty of time.

There was a bit of a disagreement as she found out her father expected her to travel in the cart with her sister. She pointed out she was twice the rider that Bran was. She was allowed to ride her own horse.

The first night after Jon had left to head north, Arya closed her eyes and became Nymeria, darting off into the forest with Summer and Lady in tow. Her sisters were confused, wondering why she wasn't hunting, but she had other prey in mind.

A few miles out, she began catching the scent of humans. They terrified a few local farmers and travelers before they finally found the right one. The lazy bastard had stopped for the night, lying in the grass by the wayside. He had two horses, one panting for breath, the other sleeping soundly on it's feet.

The direwolves circled around and approached from the east, causing enough of a commotion to get both horses alert.

Nymeria could sense her sisters catch on. A game. Get this foolish human awake and chase him as fast as possible. Summer loves games. She jumps out of the shadows and barks excitedly. One horse whinnies and tries to kick her, but the direwolf pup is too quick and leaps around.

The human leaps to his feet with a yelp, throwing off his cape aside and leaping for his weapon. Nymeria cuts him off, baring her teeth and growling, a deep rumble coming all the way from her chest. Lady, being the smart one, has cut off the horses, keeping them from fleeing their rider.

The human seems to think he can still fight. A bite to the leg is enough to convince him otherwise. He kicks her off, hurting her nose and then grabs the reins of the closest horse, leaping into the saddle and spurring the horse in one fluid motion.

The three wolves follow with long strides. Summer burns out fast, spending too much energy snapping after the horses hind legs. Lady is smarter, keeping pace with long, even strides and the yapping to the bare minimum. Nymeria howled in pleasure from the hunt, frightening the horse even more and making the rider curse.

The night passed quickly. The rider tried to head east towards Winterfell once he hit the Kingsroad, but the wolves knew better and herded him at full speed towards the camp further down the road.

Two miles from the camp, the horse gives a strangled scream and keels over, trapping its rider beneath it. The animal kicks and screams, using its last vestiges of power to try and defend itself.

Killing the horse was not part of the game, Nymeria decided. In the distance, she could see the lights of the camp. So could the human. He could pull himself there on a broken leg. And so, the wolves cut off the road and made their way back to their human brethren. They slipped in the flap of a fine grey tent. Nymeria's human sister is bundled up in her blankets, next to her little brother. Summer had arrived ahead of time and was sleeping right next to the young boy. Lady found her place by her sister's feet, while Nymeria managed to crawl under the blankets to lie as close to her human as possible. Satisfied with a job well done, she fell asleep.

Arya woke a bit late the next morning. Not because she was particularly tired, but because it was so damn comfortable to sleep without that damn headache. There was some commotion going on in the camp, but Nymeria didn't seem threatened. Not bothering to get up, Arya lay on her back and kept her ears peeled.

_Wolves. Exhausted horse. Bad news. Rebellion._ She tuned it out. She knew what was happening. She'd played her hand, and now all she could do was cross her fingers.

She had to stop herself from whooping in joy when she was told her father would have to stay in the North to sort out the rebellion and the power vacuum that would follow. King Robert wasn't happy about it. Her father was trying not to show how relieved he was. It would not be proper to appear happy about the destruction of an entire house.

"They are going to make Uncle Jaime the next Hand of the King." Myrcella approached Arya while she was sitting playing with Nymeria down by a small creek away from the camp. She had been waiting for someone to bother explaining what would happen, but was surprised to see Myrcella.

"Think he'll do a good job?" Arya asked, raising an eyebrow. She'd heard some mention that he was the second best option, but she'd thought it was a joke. He was hardly a leader. Myrcella shrugged.

"He is not as stupid as people would have you believe."

"I suppose it doesn't matter. He won't be the one making the decisions."

"You seem to know an awful lot about my family."

"I've met your mother. I've heard of your grandfather. It doesn't take a genius." Myrcella gave a wry smile and carefully took a seat on a stone, bunching up her fine pink dress. She'd done her hair up impressively too, some form of southern hairstyle with elaborate braids.

"He's going to be torn apart." Myrcella said quietly after making sure there were nobody else nearby. "My mother has her claws in him..." There was a meaningful pause. "And my grandfather is everything people say and more. Uncle Jaime won't stand a chance."

"And then there's me." Arya pointed out the obvious. Right now, she was the greatest threat to the Lannister family.

"And then there is you." Myrcella had a calculating expression on her face. It occurred to Arya that she might just make a good queen. Too bad she was third in line, a bastard, and bound to face opposition by her uncles. "I don't want us to be enemies, you know."

"Define 'us.'"

"You and I, primarily. You seem fun. I'd like to be friends. But I also mean House Lannister and House Stark. I know there is bad blood, but there is no benefit to fighting each others. It'd tear the Seven Kingdoms apart." She reached out a dainty hand. "Let's be friends, Lady Arya."

Arya took her hand and squeezed it. "It'd be my honour, your Grace."

"Does this mean you'll stop blackmailing my mother and uncle?"

Arya grinned wide enough to show every last tooth. It was becoming a common occurrence. "Don't be silly, 'Cella. That's the exact opposite of what we should do." She relayed her plan to the princess, watching her eyes grow wider and wider. She was coming to understand that Arya never did anything by half measures.

"Isn't that treason?"

"Only if we get caught." Myrcella burst out laughing. Not her dignified, melodic laugh that Arya was slowly learning fine ladies actually practiced, but a kind of coughing laughter that looked mildly painful and very amusing. She reigned herself in fast.

"You might just be the craziest person I've ever met, and that's saying something."

"We're both going to need a little crazy in the coming years, I think."

"Well, if we're going to do this, we have to make it look good." Myrcella said, and Arya didn't like the glint in her eyes. "If you are to be the companion of a princess, you have to act like it."

Before she knew it, her hand was trapped in a death grip and she was being pulled along back to camp. A sinking feeling in her stomach told her this was not going to end well. The moment Myrcella began pulling out her dresses and evaluate them, she was certain.

Jory Cassel hid his chuckles behind one hand when Myrcella proudly presented her finished work. She had quickly refitted one of Arya's nicest dresses, a silvery grey wrap-around made of fine wool that her mother had made her. Myrcella's new additions included long bell sleeves and a riot of white, pink and blue silk flowers that Myrcella had apparently made in her spare time on the journey up. The princess's method for taming Arya's wild hair was far more brutal than her mother's, and equally more effective. She was told she looked like a proper southern lady now. She was fairly certain she could become the new royal jester instead.

Myrcella pulled her forwards to stand at her side when the King and Lord Stark got ready to speak. Arya was within stabbing distance of Joffrey, who had an adoring Sansa at his arm. Her sister gave her a once-over and snickered at her discomfort.

"I see you've adopted a mutt, sister." Joffrey said to his sister. Myrcella took it meekly, not wanting to start a fight, but Arya just couldn't resist.

"It's all the rage these days, I hear." She jerked her head in the direction of the Hound, who scowled annoyed at being brought into the conversation. Jeoffrey was nonplussed for a moment. Arya had just compared herself to the most uncouth man in the room, and the young prince was having a hard time finding a worse insult. Myrcella placed her hands on Arya's shoulders and smiled sweetly.

"Mine's prettier. No offence." She added the last part as an afterthought to the Hound.

"I think yours is more likely to bite, your Grace." Some lesser lady companion of the queen couldn't help herself but butt in, leaning a bit too close. Arya bared her teeth in a toothy grin and clacked her teeth in jest. The lady in waiting jerked back. The grin widened.

Before anyone could think of something witty to say, the crowd cleared way for the fuming king, who stomped across the damn northern grass to sit down in the fancy chairs set out for him and the queen. His bitch wife followed, looking understandably smug.

The king was handed a goblet of wine from a frightened looking blonde page, took a deep swig, then remembered he had an announcement to make. He seemed irritated at the idea.

"In light of recent events" the words came out stilted and annoyed, as if someone had written the speech for him and he found it banale "the North needs strong leadership. That's why my good friend Lord Eddard of House Stark will stay in his position as Warden of the North, until this mess is sorted out.

"In the meantime, Ser Jaime Lannister will be named Hand of the King." There was some muttering among the crowd. Some seemed happy, others incredulous. The Kingslayer was standing at the King's right hand, ducking his head in what was supposed to look like humility, but was probably hiding some form of embarrassment or apprehension behind his long hair. Still, he had his own lines spoon fed to him, and as an obedient monkey, he recited them.

"With winter approaching, the Crown sees it sensible to keep the North and the Capital as closely connected as possible. With that in mind, the Crown calls Robert of House Stark to King's Landing to serve as the northern envoy at court."

Arya's breath caught in her throat. Robb? He hadn't fared any better than her father in the south. And this time he wouldn't have an army at his back.

The 'northern envoy' thing sounded like bullshit to her. Who would want to send him south? It would have had to be someone in the camp, but Cersei and the Kingslayer would rather stay as far away from the Starks as possible. A hostage wouldn't serve them now. Unless she'd completely missed some crucial player, the only option left was her father. A man who hated the south, and wanted to keep his children as safe as possible. But also one who knew that Jon Arryn had been murdered. She would have to keep a close eye on things.

On the bright side, that meant having one of her few sensible siblings at her side. And another direwolf. Never a bad thing. She exchanged a glance with Myrcella, who raised an eyebrow, wondering if this would change their plans. Arya shook her head lightly, and Myrcella relaxed.

Messengers had already been sent to fetch Robb. Her father knew there was no time to waste in crushing the rebellion around the Weeping Water before they could get themselves barricaded in the fortress. Still, he was reluctant to leave his children. She, Sansa and Bran were all called their tent, where their father had already given Jory his instructions. Jory was dismissed, and their father turned his attention to the children, his expression somber.

"This is very unfortunate." He said.

"Why can't you let Robb handle this?" Sansa asked, frustrated. "You are turning down the chance to be the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms." Lord Stark gave his eldest daughter a hard look.

"This is not about that. Robb is still young. He isn't ready to ride to war just yet. And I will still be Hand, once the rebellion is stopped." Bran was uncharacteristically quiet. He'd spent most of his time on the journey either sleeping or sitting alone with Summer. Perhaps he was traumatized from hearing Cersei and Jaime. "It should take less than a year, depending on who is behind this." Their father went on. "Any of you can stay behind with me, and then go south later. There is no hurry."

Sansa looked affronted at the very idea of leaving her precious beau behind. Bran looked a bit like he wanted to speak, but his lipped tightened into a thin line and he shook his head meekly. Arya shrugged and leant back in her chair. After a pause, Lord Stark nodded.

"I see. You must all be on your best behaviour in the capital, do you understand? I'm looking at you, Arya." Sansa smirked. Arya smiled back, confident.

"I'll try and make you proud, father."

"And remember, Robb is in charge. His word is law, and he has the power to send any of you on a ship straight home."

"My Lord? Your son has arrived." Jory Cassel stepped inside the tent for a moment, revealing Robb standing right behind him trying not to show his anxiety.

The younger children were ushered out and away by Jory so that Robb and their father could speak in peace. There was a silence between them that Arya had to admit was affecting her. Usually they always had something to say. Sansa and Arya would bicker, Arya and Bran would joke and tease each others, and sometimes they might all share some big concern. Now, though, Bran hardly spoke more than three words in a row, and Arya was just not that interested in letting Sansa rile her up. She'd pretty much owned up to everything people used to tease her about. And trying to insult her sister didn't have the same appeal either.

She missed the other Sansa. The badass Lady of Winterfell who could rule a castle, lead an army and handle the world's biggest egos. She missed the sister that was as messed up as she was. But that sister was gone. She'd never existed. Of course, it was Arya who was the problem here. She was the one who had ruined their dynamic by coming back. She was the one splitting the family apart.

There was a lump in her throat. Damn it. She was an adult, for fuck's sake. She should act like it -- just not too conspicuously.

How had she survived the trip down the first time around? Oh, right. Mycah. He must be bored too, she surmised. His father insisted on doing most of the work alone, which left Mycah a lot of free time.

Sparring wouldn't be as fun as it used to be, now that she was so much better at it, but she did need to build up muscle again.

Of course, she couldn't do that while dolled up. And she couldn't go back to the tent while it was occupied. Damn you, Myrcella. She knew how much this would annoy her.

Still, she decided to seek out the butcher's boy. She remembered him as really sweet and funny, and she needed a bit of cheer right now.

He was sharpening knives behind the butcher's wagon when she found him. She stopped a moment to just take in the familiar sight and to get over the pang in her heart. He was just the way she remembered him, an adorably chubby redhead that proved that gingers could certainly have souls too.

"Hey." She greeted. His head snapped up from his work.

"My lady." He greeted formally, holding her eyes for about three seconds before he broke out giggling. "You look really… lady-like." He gestured with a cleaver at her dress. She huffed.

"The princess forced me." He grimaced at the word 'princess'. He'd always been uncomfortable around nobility.

"She's not that bad, honest. If it's just us, I'll make sure nothing bad happens if you insult her or anything." Arya promised. Mycah relaxed a bit.

"So, do you want to play?" He asked.

"I can't really run around in this." Mycah laughed.

"Sure you can."

"And not have Myrcella strangle me with a silk ribbon?"

"That's trickier. It's okay, though. We can do something else." He was absentmindedly fiddling with the cleaver, twirling it around his hand with ease.

"You're really good with those, you know." Arya said, gesturing to it. Mycah tossed the cleaver into the air and caught it one handed by the blade.

"I'm around knives all day. I have to be good with them." He held up his hand to show her a deep scar on the inside of his thumb. "I haven't always been this good."

She examined the scar. It was an odd place to get one.

"What did you do? Try and cut it off?"

"I was playing the Game with my cousin. I lost."

"The Game? Capital G?"

"Yeah, it's like a rite of passage for butchers. You're not a man before you've played it."

"How do you play it?" She asked, interested. Mycah put the cleaver down and searched for a bit in the chest beside him, before he pulled out a battered cutting board, with about a million gouges from being stabbed repeatedly. He put it down on the closed lid, then pulled out a dagger and knelt in front of the board. Arya bunched up her dress and took a seat on a crate to watch in interest.

Mycah placed his left hand on the board with his fingers spread, before holding up the dagger with his right hand. He began stabbing down into the cutting board between his fingers in a rhythmic pattern, slowly but surely increasing the speed. His forehead scrunched up in concentration as he focused on the task. Arya's eyes almost crossed trying to keep up with the knife as he increased the speed even more.

Finally, he slowed to a stop and placed the dagger securely into the board.

"You keep going until you can't go any faster." He explained. "Or until the other guy loses. It's one or the other."

"Can I try?" Mycah handed her the knife and cutting board without question. It was the thing she liked the most about him. He didn't treat her differently just because she was a noble or a girl.

"Does the pattern matter?" She asked as she tested stabbing between her fingers a little bit.

"Just pick something that feels natural and stick with it. Don't try to change it up once you've picked something."

She took a good hold on the knife with her left hand and began tracing out a pattern. Then she began speeding up. Her blood was pumping in her ears, and she couldn't stop herself from smiling at the rush. The knife was almost a blur when she slipped the first time. It was nothing serious, just a tiny cut on the side of her middle finger. It would heal on it's own. She was on a flow, so she didn't stop even though she'd technically lost.

The second cut was on the flesh between her thumb and index finger. She bit her lip from the pain and had to stop to pinch the area.

"Pretty good, for a first try." Mycah complimented, taking the dagger back and spinning it. "You all right?" She examined the cut.

"It'll be fine in a few days." The bleeding stopped after about a minute. "And I even kept all my fingers." She smiled proudly.

"If you lost one, Septa Mordane probably wouldn't make you sew anymore." Mycah pointed out.  
"Hand me the knife." Mycah hurried to pull it out of her reach, passing it behind his back when Arya leapt for it. She was faster. Way faster. After about eight seconds of letting him show off, tossing and flipping the knife just out of reach, she deftly swiped it midair and sent it flying into the wall of the wagon, where it stuck a centimeter and a half into the wood.

"Neat!" Mycah exclaimed, shaking off the surprise and examining the knife still shaking in the wall. "How did you get it to stick?"

This led to a long winded demonstration of the intricacies of knife-throwing, followed by an even longer while of Mycah throwing every knife he had at the wall hoping for one of them to stick. When he finally got one, he decided it was time to get back to something he was more comfortable at, which led to a few more rounds of the Game, competitively, this time.

Mycah won the first two rounds, one because Arya got another cut on her pinkie, the other because he could keep going longer than her. After that, though, Arya managed to perfect her technique and won two rounds of her own.

It was on their tie-breaking round that things went wrong, and of course it was that little shit Joffrey that was to blame.

Well, technically it was her fault. She heard him approaching, but she knew Mycah was close to losing, and she really wanted to win this round. It was silly of her. It really was. And she paid the price.

The prince made a loud barking noise from behind her, sudden enough to break her concentration for the split second that was needed. Her knife slammed full force into the base of her little finger, right beneath the first knuckle. It went clean through, cutting off the whole finger.

There was a loud howl and it took her a moment to realize it came from Mycah, not her. She took a deep gulping breath, staring in horror at the stump where there had once been a finger and now only was gushing blood. The pain would hit her soon. She knew that from experience. And she also knew the most effective way to stave it off for now.

She pulled the knife with her left hand and spun around to face the prince, showing every bit of her rage. Nymeria, who had been lounging under the wagon was on her feet as well, teeth bared at the Hound, who had instinctively drawn his sword upon seeing Arya's furious expression.

"You're a cocky little bastard, aren't you?" She hissed, low and menacing. "You think you can get away with anything." She raised the blade. "Let's test that, shall we?"

The Hound had seen enough. He tried both grabbing the prince and leaping for her at the same time, but his assumption was wrong. She wasn't aiming for Joffrey, no matter how satisfying it would be to slit his throat. Instead, she brought the blade up to her face and slashed, from the left to right, cutting deep from her temple, across her brow and nose, to end right above the opposite corner of her lip. She threw the blade to the ground at Joffrey's feet and finally let the pain register.

Her scream was loud and shrill enough to let the whole camp hear her. "Somebody HELP ME!"

Most likely on pure instinct, the Hound punched her. She twisted to redirect the force, but could still hear her nose break from the gauntleted hand. Then Nymeria was upon him, taking advantage of the drop in his guard to bite through the leather on his sword hand. Mycah, on the other hand, surprised Arya by leaping to shield her with his body, loudly yelling for them to leave her alone.

She couldn't have planned it out any better. The waif on the ground clutching her bloody face in a mangled hand, the brave commoner shielding her, the big bad soldier cursing up a storm and the prince standing horrified with a bloody knife at his feet.

The first man on the scene was a Lannister Redcloak who screeched to a halt a few feet away and stared in horror, at a complete loss for what to do.

The Hound was still struggling with Nymeria, trying to pull her off. Sooner or later he would remember he still had his dagger. Arya quickly reached out with her mind and became Nymeria for long enough to dislodge herself and take off running. No need to put the wolf in danger for this next part.

Then, the cavalry arrived. The cavalry in this case being Robb.

It occurred to Arya that she had never seen Robb truly angry. She'd seen him in fights, yelling and punching and cursing, but those were childish spats. She'd never seen the Young Wolf, the storm front coming.

His expression was perfectly mirrored by Grey Wind at his side, teeth bared, lips thin and curled back.

All of that fury was not directed at the Hound, who was on his knees trying to stop the bleeding from his arm, but rather at Joffrey. In his cold rage, Robb never doubted who was responsible for this. Arya realized she had seconds to prevent her brother and the wolf from straight up murdering the prince. She did not go through all of this to get her brother executed, thank you very much.

She tried to speak. Between the adrenaline, her broken nose and Mycah practically lying on top of her, she couldn't get out more than a wheeze. She needed another approach. She reached out with her mind towards Grey Wind, hoping she could become him and calm him down enough to stop Robb.

It felt like she'd slammed her head straight into a metal gate. It was so sharp and staggering that it overrode the physical pain she was in. Still, she tried again. The same pain followed, but this time she pushed through.

Grey Wind was resisting. But that wasn't the thing that scared her. The thing that worried her was that she didn't just reach Grey Wind. She reached Robb too, parts of him living in Grey Wind, quiet and subdued beneath the pulsing power of the direwolf. The anger at Joffrey was Robb's, but the sheer force of it was all Grey Wind.

Arya pushed again, this time not so much trying to calm Grey Wind as much as pushing him a bit away from Robb. It seemed to work. Robb was by no means calm, but his concern for her was overriding his rage. He hurried over and crouched down to examine her face.

"He cut me." She whispered, hoarse and tired. Damn. Not enough time to fix the narrative. But her head was being pounded by a sledgehammer and she needed to close her eyes and let the darkness take her.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Mance may have come a bit out of nowhere for those of you who haven't read the books. I'll stick to the show as much as possible, but sometimes I'll supplement it a bit from the books, mostly because the show lore is so incomplete.


End file.
